


A Hero's Journey

by AM_In_The_Morning



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: "slightly" alternate version of CACW, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate version of Spider-man: Homecoming, BAMF Peter Parker, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Genius Peter Parker, Grief/Mourning, Mystery, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Secret Identity, Young Peter Parker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23983048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AM_In_The_Morning/pseuds/AM_In_The_Morning
Summary: In another world, Peter Parker grows up a bit differently, facing challenges long before he became Spider-man. His world is turned upside-down in just one day, his parents are gone, Ben and May are inching closer and closer to a divorce even though neither won't admit it, and eventually, he realizes that he's not the only one keeping secrets in the family.Then the spider bite happens.Peter Parker just can't seem to catch a break, especially when along his path, he meets a blind vigilante in red leather and another vigilante, mercenary, really, who just can't seem to shut up--and that was saying something from Peter himself. But nothing beats of meeting Tony freaking Stark one day in his apartment, chatting with his aunt like friends.Among many, many other things.
Relationships: Ben Parker & Peter Parker, Ben Parker/May Parker (Spider-Man), May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 8
Kudos: 99





	1. Prologue: Tragedy in Our Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Introducing the story of BAMF Peter Parker who unlike his MCU counterpart (who is still great but) he can actually prove he's the Spectacular Spiderman without the tech handed on a silver platter and has one or three actual much more suitable mentor-ish figures for him and how he achieved his BAMF-ness with their help.
> 
> And also fractionally a story of how he became best frenemies with Deadpool. Yeah, it's a thing.
> 
> I need a better summary.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of those who were great, the beginning of those who will become greater.

**Prologue:**

**Tragedy in Our Blood**

* * *

It was quiet in the prison cells.

Wisps of night mist slid and coiled into the cells through the single barred window of each cubicle. It was no brighter inside the room than the seemingly never-ending gloom of dusk. It was cold in the summers, freezing in the winters, and for all how expansive each cell was as a whole, there was only one occupant. Surrounded by four thick, gray walls, what else was to do but stare. Paint had chipped off long before the occupant had arrived, or perhaps it had been scratched by the previous dwellers—doing anything to do with time, anything to stop the claws of insanity from the walls’ blank stare.

The occupant felt a smile stretch his lips. He flexed his bloody fingers, the shackles around his arms and legs heavy and digging into his flesh. He lifted his head just a bit, the bloodstains on his wild reddish hair strangely bright, eyes that were as dark as the pits of the abyss wide and unseeing. A singularly, perfect line scarred his face from his forehead to the bottom of his lip. It was a gift from his friends, oh how he missed them and their relatively short but nevertheless wonderful adventures.

It had been a happy day for the occupant. It was his last night in this boring, old place. Soon, he’ll be transported to another “house” for the first time in seven-ish years, and this house was apparently much more fortified and hidden from the rest of the world. Some island that’s name he didn’t bother remembering, somewhere around Bronx and Queens or something of the sorts. Anyhow, that wasn’t really the reason why he was so happy today.

The truth was, he could escape if he wanted to. But that would mean being chased by the police and then dealing with those agents and it was just so boring. Everything was boring ever since his friend had apparently “retired” and was no longer going out at night dressed in a run-of-the-mill Halloween get-up.

However, this morning, he received news from his lackey in the prison— _you can manipulate anyone these days_ , the occupant thought with a shook of his head—that sadly, while his friend was still “retired”, they were dead.

They were dead.

The occupant laughed. He laughed and laughed even as his cellmates started complaining, even as the biggest one—the beefy one with all muscles and brawn and hardly any neck—threw a punch at his disfigured face. The occupant merely coughed out another laugh as he collided with the ground, slowly turning back to his fellow inmates with a knife in his hand that he had hidden in his pillow. The occupant would proudly admit that his knife was sharp. You wouldn’t even realize you’ve been cut with it, not immediately, until you see the rivulets of blood drip and fall or simply splatter all around you. It was finer and sharper than any blade he held—well, except for the one that cut his face in half.

And so explained his bloodied hands, hair, and clothes.

Yes, it was a happy day for the occupant.

_How ironic_ , he thought as his stomach rumbled with another laugh, stretching his jaws almost inhumanly as he howled in the darkness of his cell, _after everything they went through, they die in a plane crash..._

_And people actually believe it!_

* * *

**2008**

The service of his parents’ funeral looked and felt gloomy. Everywhere Peter looked, there were no smiles and everyone dressed in dark colors. The young boy was sitting far from the crowd, on top of the stairs where he could simply watch and observe everything happening below him. His round, warm coffee eyes didn’t look so young anymore as the usual cheerful and brilliant expression in his gaze was replaced with an emotion that should never be in a child’s eyes: grief, pain, and loss.

He had been sitting there all by himself for quite a while now. Initially, his friend—Harry—sat with him for what felt like an hour or two, but had to go when Peter remained quiet and when his mother called for him downstairs.

Peter’s head hung low between his legs as his hands were clasped tightly together. He had wanted to stay away from the hands on his shoulders that the grown-ups must have thought to be comforting, the black clothes he was wearing was already as uncomfortable as it is—away from the questions of “ _How are you?_ ” or the words of “ _It’ll be all right_ ” or “ _They’re in a better place now, dear_ ”, away from everything that reminded him that his parents were never going to come back.

It wasn’t fair, nothing that was happening was fair. His mom and dad had promised that they would be back, and Peter believed them because he had no reason not to. Even though sometimes his parents break their promises that their work won’t take too long or that they’ll be back by Saturday, they _always_ came back.

_So why didn’t they come back?_ Peter clutched his fists tighter, nails digging into his palms as tears burned in his eyes.

The sound of footsteps approaching made Peter lift his head up. Through blurry eyes, he could see a brown-haired woman in a dark dress walking up the stairs towards him. Down below, the few people who attended the funeral apart from his aunt and uncle were gathering their things as the caskets were being lifted.

There were not that many who attended. There was Detective Stacy who was quite close to his father and uncle, the Osborns: his best friend, Harry, and his parents, Mrs. Emily Osborn, and Mr. Norman Osborn who had worked along with his mother a couple of months ago, and an older man with blond hair and gray eyes, whom Peter didn’t recognize but didn’t really seem like one of the visitors.

The sight of the caskets sent a jolt of pain in Peter’s chest, as if his heart was being squeezed so much that he felt like it was going to burst. The stream of tears finally escaped from his eyes, but before Peter could brush it away, hands gently held his own small ones.

“Peter.” His Aunt May looked at him, and like Uncle Ben, there was no pity in her gaze unlike the other adults. Her eyes were red and there were tear tracks on both of her cheeks. Judging from the crumpled tissues peeking from her purse, she had been crying recently. Her grip on his shoulders was gentle but firm, as if she wasn’t willing to let him pull away like last time—and other previous times.

“Peter.” She said again when Peter remained quiet. He hasn’t said a word since they had to deliver the tragic news, since they had to tell this normally cheerful, loving boy that something terrible had happened to the two, most important people in his life. She hesitated for a second, trying to come up with anything that could comfort her nephew.

But when no such words formed in her mind, May let out a quiet sigh and briefly closed her eyes. “Let’s go.” She softly said instead.

The boy didn’t protest when she held one of his hands, the fact that she could wrap her own hand around it made her heart ache and remember how young he really was for all how brilliant and clever he spoke or thought.

They descended downstairs where Ben waited for them, standing firm and tall even though the expression in his eyes said otherwise. His suit was a bit unkempt, his hair disheveled, a streak of gray on them even though he was only in his early forties—merely a handful of years older than Peter’s father. Ben met her gaze with a small smile when he saw her holding Peter’s hand, only for his expression to fall once again when Peter didn’t acknowledge him like last time, and just like last time, he refused to look at him or May either.

Ben lets his hand fold to May’s. Whereas her hold on Peter was gentle, she gripped onto him like a lifeline.

Together, the three of them walked towards the burial ground with heavy broken hearts.

The graveside ceremony was brief and dull to Peter’s ears, then again, everything around him seemed dull nowadays. Ever since he learned of his parents’ deaths, Peter felt like he was underwater and there was a thick glass wall separating him and the rest of the world. Their voices distant, the light barely entering through the glass, and his view of what’s supposed to be in front of him vague and unclear.

He didn’t look at the two caskets laid in front of him, not for too long, and spent the rest of the ceremony looking anywhere but there.

When the words were done and the caskets were finally covered, the few people who attended had already left with the exception of Mr. Osborn who was speaking to his aunt and uncle along with the odd, gray-eyed man from the service. They were waiting for him by an old nearby tree where their car was parked.

Two, polished, black headstones with his parents’ names carved elegantly in white letters — _Richard A. Parker. 1968-2008. Mallory Y. Parker. 1970-2008._

Peter didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at the headstones and wishing that maybe this was all some kind of horrible dream where he would wake up with his mother and father still there by his bedside.

And yet, at the back of his mind, he _knew_ that his parents were never coming back. He was eight years old and wasn’t stupid. He was smart enough to understand how death worked.

His parents died in a plane crash on their way home, halfway from where they had gone for their business trip— _Germany_ , Peter remembered— when their plane suddenly went missing, and it was quite a long time until the men in charge of the search finally found it. September twenty-three, Wednesday afternoon, his aunt and uncle sat with him in the living room after he just returned from school. Their expressions grave and their eyes full of unshed tears.

But before they had even spoke a word, a tiny part of Peter somewhat knew what they were going to say.

His parents weren’t coming home.

So yes, Peter understood how death worked. Logically.

Emotionally? No, he did not.

No matter how clever or brilliant he was, he was only a child who just lost his entire world in one day.

Peter’s somber gaze continued to linger at his parents’ graves, black and polished with their names carved on it. _Be brave_ , his father would say whenever he was afraid while his mother would offer a gentle kiss on his forehead after a nightmare. Even now, Peter could still hear their words and feel their warmth.

The boy breathed out a shuddery breath, closed his eyes, opened them, and this time, allowed himself to weep in the quietness of the morning. _Be brave_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some of you might have noticed, this story used to have two parts that described a very different plot and though I have drastically changed it hence the current one, there may or may not have some parts of this current story that are from the previous one so the seven-ish people who gave the kudos at the time, please shut up XD
> 
> Also, I'm still building up the chapters for this story and by that, it's gonna take some time. I only posted the prologue to see how it goes and well, it's a start.
> 
> Note: In case you're confused, I made the name of Peter's mother, Mary, to be a nickname of "Mallory". For story purposes.


	2. Chapter One: People That Come and Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wounds that reopen and resurface, scars that remain and remind.

**Chapter One:**

**People That Come and Go**

* * *

_If somebody had told you that this was a happy little tale with a happy ending and everything is all good and great, well, that somebody lied. If somebody told you that I was just an ordinary kid without a care—geeky, acne, and knows every bit of dialogue from at least three Star Wars movies by heart—that somebody also lied._

_Well, not necessarily._

_My name is Peter Parker. I’m the son of Richard and Mary Parker, two seemingly ordinary people with a seemingly ordinary son—although—to be honest, I really_ was _ordinary back then._

_See where I’m going with this?_

_Anyway, let’s start this one last time._

* * *

**September 2013**

Peter was bleeding.

He clutched his left hand with his right, all the while swearing under his breath. Glass crunched under his shoes where he had accidentally knocked off his snow globe souvenir from the 2010 Stark Expo.

It had been, and perhaps still is, every ten-year-old’s dream to meet Iron Man, not just once, but twice. Despite being incredibly close to being blasted to smithereens by a Hammer Drone, Peter had gone home that night smiling starry-eyed with his plastic Iron Man mask and blasters that he had proudly crafted himself. Of course, he suffered from the occasional nightmare of Hammer Drones barging into his home and finishing the job, but those nightmares would usually end with either Iron Man coming to his rescue or Peter blasting the drones himself.

Personally, he preferred the latter, and who wouldn’t? It was awesome to imagine yourself as a real life superhero—not to mention, a genius who’s invented things that were previously deemed impossible in today’s generation—when in reality, you were a glasses-wearing, thin-faced dork with a mop of brown hair that just could never be combed neatly—which Peter also is.

The dork, that is.

Once, he was even told that he had the kind of face people would forget even when they had looked at him in the eye. The remark didn’t really sting, besides, he preferred it to be that way especially when all attention brought him was trouble in the past.

Peter huffed a breath of annoyance at the broken souvenir. He knelt down and began picking the jagged pieces of the globe more carefully this time with his uninjured hand. He examined one fragment, the piece that had its mirror-like surface, seeing nothing but his own coffee-colored eyes reflected back at him.

He looked down when he realized that he was stepping on something else that wasn’t glass. Keeping his bleeding hand elevated, Peter leaned in to get a closer look and realized that the globe had fallen nearly right on top of a notebook. One of its corners was already soaked by the snow globe’s liquid while the moleskin cover was ruined by its decorative "snow".

Something lodged in Peter’s chest as he recognized that it was one of his mother's old notebooks. His hand froze on the opened pages, the ink had slightly faded on the graph paper and its corners had turned into a shade of brownish yellow. It would have been something his mother would have liked, the appearance of old, worn-out books and all.

Peter shook his head and refused to dwell further on his thoughts.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he roughly grabbed the book and dumped it in a wooden chest filled with the rest of his parents' belongings. He shoved the chest underneath his bed, and stalked off to the bathroom to wash his bleeding finger.

The arguing voices from the living room was noticeably clearer to hear even with water running down from the faucet. Rather than eavesdrop, Peter tried to pay it no mind and focused his attention on his wound.

Not for the first time, an argument had broken out over dinner at the Parker household. Peter wasn't precisely sure who or what initiated it this time, perhaps it was because of his uncle coming home late from work—again—or his aunt confronting his uncle about his excuses as to why he was always late—also again—or Peter asking the two of them how their day had gone by while he was at school.

It was generally considered an innocuous question, one that no would expect to be the beginning of a rather heated argument.

_Then again, much more unexpected things have happened_. Peter thought.

Ever since the Battle of New York, the news had started to report more of odd and seemingly supernatural events occurring on different spots around the planet. Some were rather interesting, some turned out to be hoaxes, some a strange mix between the two; nevertheless, the attention on such things didn't usually last for more than a week before people moved on with their now not-so-normal lives in this not-so-normal world. People like Peter and his family included.

"That doesn't justify anything, Ben!" May nearly shouted from the living room "You've been sleeping less, always coming home tired and then leaving the next morning without saying anything."

Peter could easily imagine his uncle rubbing a hand all over his face. "I've told you countless times, I've been very busy,” He argued back, "and so is rest of the department with the rise of crime here in New York, you know this!"

May scoffed at the excuse. It wasn't the first time his uncle used it either, Peter thought. While the rise of crime was definitely true, he and his aunt weren't the only ones who noticed that his uncle seemed to be doing things outside of his work. Sergeant Stacy, Ben's superior and fellow officer, even asked May about him, saying that he was getting worried of Ben's suddenly reclusive nature.

The voices of his aunt and uncle were now speaking in furious whispers, Peter could still hear a few words if he really focused his hearing but decided not to. More than half the time, nothing came good out of eavesdropping, though that didn't really stop him from doing so every once in a while.

With another sigh, Peter used a large wad of toilet paper to mop up the snow globe’s leftover material upon returning to his bedroom, and locked the door behind him. Ben or May would likely chastise him later for doing so, but Peter couldn't bring himself to care.

Running a hand over his disheveled hair, he glanced back at his desk. His chemistry homework was done along with the history essay he miraculously managed to finish before the terrible dinner. Battery parts, rolled up copper wires, electrical tape, and the rest of the objects he scavenged in the dumpster last summer were all piled in a carton that was gathering dust under his desk. Now that he saw it, Peter realized that it's been weeks since he last touched his tools.

Apparently, starting at a new school that specialized in nearly every aspect of math and science, being stressed out thinking of ideas for the approaching science fair next month, along with the problems he was dealing at home—Ben and May's arguments, financial issues regarding the house, Peter's own medication for his asthma—made it easy to forget that it's been weeks since the last time he actually did something that he _wanted_.

Going to the prestigious Midtown School of Science and Technology—or Midtown Tech, as the students have shortened it—had been Ben and May's idea. While Peter didn't really have a problem with the choice of school, his aunt and uncle had not asked _him_ which school he wanted to go. Even though Midtown High, so far, seemed pretty great, there were still plenty other good schools that weren’t so far and costly.

When the voices outside Peter's room started to get louder again, he grabbed his phone and put on his headphones, setting the music to the highest volume so that it could drown out the other noises.

Just as he was about to get his tools, an ID tag with a silver-edged card peeking under his mess of papers caught his attention. He hesitated for a split second, then decided to pick the ID up instead, he turned it over, and stared at the words written that explained the precise purpose of the tag.

PETER PARKER. SEVENTH GRADE – MIDTOWN TECH.  
STUDENT PASS.  
OSCORP INDUSTRIES.

Peter quietly scolded himself for almost forgetting next Friday’s field trip to Oscorp. Since Midtown High was one of the most prestigious high schools in New York, there were field trips to places like Oscorp every year for the freshmen and senior students to “broaden their horizons” and “inspire them to create a better world” or whatever it was the teachers had told them last week.

If he were any other kid, he would have freaked out upon knowing that they were going to have a field trip to Oscorp freaking Industries. They have the most advanced electron microscope in the eastern seaboard and have had huge progress on both bioengineering and nanotechnology, even surpassing companies like Pym Technologies and Stark Industries—although Peter could argue that the two companies have different focuses anyway.

But he wasn't any other kid, not really, and Oscorp wasn't really what bothered him but what it reminded him of. It brought memories of the past he’d rather not dwell on for a long time.

It's nearly been three years since the last time he saw the Osborns. Six months after the funeral, Harry's mother had succumbed to her mysterious illness.

When he had found out, Peter had immediately searched for Harry once he arrived at their school. Even though he missed the first morning class trying to find him, he didn’t stop—until finally, he found Harry at a secluded section of the school library. His normally talkative and cheerful friend was curled up on the floor with arms tucked under his chest and his head bowed down.

Peter had sat beside him, silent because there was nothing there to be said, and spent the rest of the day by Harry’s side, purposefully missing the remaining classes because his friend was more important. They didn't say anything to each other for a long time, and when they did, it was only in short, nearly inaudible words between sobs and tears.

_“I’m sorry about your mother.” Peter softly whispered. “I didn’t know until this morning.”_

_“It’s all right.” Harry’s muffled voice replied. “I didn’t know how to say it anyway.”_

_“Is there anything I can do?”_

_“Come to the funeral.”_

_“Of course.”_

_“And be my friend.”_

It had been almost peculiar seeing his friend like that. For as long as he knew him, Harry had always been stronger and braver than him. He was his first friend and the only one to defend him from their school’s bullies like Seymour O'Reilly—who once trapped him in an abandoned restroom because Peter won the ticket to the Stark Expo, even though he had won fair and square thank you very much.

But he supposed, at that moment as he had sit there with his friend, he couldn't help but be reminded of how much the death of a loved one can change people. Like how it had changed him, how it had changed his aunt and uncle even though they won't admit it... and perhaps also how it had changed Harry.

Peter flopped on his bed, sitting cross-legged, the springs creaking as he did so. He spent another moment staring at the ID tag, the sharp logo of OsCorp Industries staring back at him, before shoving it into his bag, reminding himself to tell his aunt and uncle about the field trip when his foot bumped a box peeking beneath his mattress.

He shot it a curious look. It wasn’t like the wooden, locked chest that had his father’s journals and his mother’s notebooks. This one was plain, brown, and old, but contained important things nonetheless: the letters he exchanged with Harry a few years ago.

“Of course,” Peter muttered, taking the box and staring at the dozens of old, folded, wrinkly papers, “more reminders.”

After his mother’s death, Harry had become distant and quiet, barely exchanging any words with him or exchanged enough words to be considered a conversation. They became even more distant towards one another when Harry had to study in Sevenoaks School in Europe. Though they did send letters from time to time, the letters had suddenly stopped coming a year later.

The last letter he got from Harry was about his father, how his friend had wished that his mother was alive instead of him.

A sudden loud knock cut Peter off from his musings. He pulled his headset off and tucked it in his pockets, the knock was getting louder and louder. “All right!” Peter groaned. “I’m coming!”

He unlocked the door and opened it a few inches, the glow of the lantern outside the hall flashing through his room. His uncle squinted his eyes, noticing how dark his room was even with the lamp on.

“What’s up?” Peter asked.

Ben turned his gaze back at his nephew, his brown hair scruffy and coffee eyes looking at him in curiosity behind his glasses.

Ben hesitated, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “We have something to discuss, you, me, and your Aunt May.” He finally said.

“O-okay…” Peter replied, a bit uncertain. A family discussion after an argument didn’t sound very good. Nevertheless, he pulled out of his thoughts before he could voice them out loud and followed his uncle.

Peter strolled into the living room, hands deep in his jeans pockets. When he reached downstairs, he found his aunt already sitting on the couch, her face buried in her hands and her long hair looking unusually unkempt.

A worried frown pulled Peter’s face, before he could ask what was wrong however, May turned to his direction with a smile that she must have thought to be reassuring, but the smile didn’t even reach her eyes.

Something was definitely wrong.

“Peter, sweetie,” She said, “sit down please.”

Peter glanced from her to his uncle who wasn’t meeting his imploring gaze. “Okay.” He said again, worry etching into his tone.

Peter sat on the couch adjacent to May’s, folding his hands and flicking his gaze back and forth between his aunt and uncle. Ben sat beside her but kept a noticeable distance apart from each other, neither looked comfortable nor were they meeting one another’s gaze.

Ben fidgeted in his seat while May seemed to be observing an interesting spot on the carpet, her fingers twirling her wedding ring as if it was a habit.

Peter enjoyed the silence as much as the next introvert, but this one was thick, uncomfortable, and made every second seem like eternity. “U-uh,” Peter uncertainly started, “is there any reason why we’re…?” He vaguely gestured to himself and to the rest of his family.

That seemed to do the trick as Ben and May almost snapped their heads to his direction, startled. His aunt recovered first. “Ah, yes, there’s—” She paused “there’s something your Uncle Ben and I want to talk to you about.”

_Obviously_. Peter chewed his cheek. It was impolite to say that word to adults, remembering one of the earliest lessons he learned from his par—

He was getting better at tact nowadays, or at least, that was what he told himself.

“What—what is it?” He asked instead.

May paused again. She was about to reply, when a sigh instead replaced her words. Then almost immediately, she straightened her hunched shoulders and shook her head out of thought.

Peter knew what she was doing, she was trying to reassure him again, changing her body language to hide what she was really feeling. He’s always been rather perceptive for his age, or at least that was what he kept hearing from others—particularly teachers—whenever they were around. But it didn’t really require a perceptive person to, well, perceive that both his aunt and uncle were distressed.

But about what?

“May.” Peter gently said.

May shot him a brief look between mild annoyance and fondness, her lips even quirking into a real smile before it faded. Another sigh escaped her breath as she rubbed her hands. “Your uncle and I…” She began “we need some space.”

Peter nearly jolted out of his seat, his eyes widening at her words.

_What?_ Peter stared at her and Ben.

His uncle breathed a quiet sigh, like a weight was off his shoulders but was replaced with an even heavier one.

“For—for how long?” Peter asked quietly.

May opened her mouth to reply but no words came, she knew that her nephew would ask such questions, but it didn’t mean she knew what the answers to those questions were.

Ben placed a tentative hand on her own, May giving the faintest hint of pulling away before she allowed him to. They shared a look that Peter couldn’t quite describe.

“For as long as we need.” Ben admitted, turning his gaze back to meet Peter’s eyes for the first time since the discussion began. If it weren’t for the streak of gray across his uncle’s hair and the subtle crow’s feet around his dark eyes, he would have looked quite young for his age. However, even his eyes looked old and tired now.

Not in a physical sense, no, Ben was in peak human condition as far as Peter knew from how he was still able to do tactical missions in the NYPD.

It was emotional, obviously, but he never realized how much their arguments have been hanging over them like a dark, stormy cloud. Even then, back when Peter first moved in with his aunt and uncle, there were quarrels here and there but they were also able to reconcile and move on. It didn’t end there, of course, and squabbles still happened from time to time.

But, Peter realized, over time as the fights continued, their words had become more… hurtful. He doesn’t think his aunt and uncle had really meant such things, and yet, the words have been said and done.

And perhaps he had willfully ignored it as well, but Ben and May _have_ become rather distant for the past few months.

How could he not have noticed it?

“Peter.”

Peter snapped his attention back to his family. They were no longer holding each other’s hands.

“I—I,” His eyes glanced away for a brief second, his mind already racing with thoughts and questions— _Why now_? _What’s going to change? Is this permanent? Was it because of something I—_ “I understand.” He finished lamely.

The uncomfortable silence settled in once more. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the background, the kettle beginning to whistle in the kitchen, and the soft _tap, tap_ of the faucet weren’t enough to fill in the thick atmosphere.

Eventually, it was broken by his aunt and uncle’s attempts at reassurance that the “space” between them wasn’t going to really change anything— _as_ _if,_ Peter thought, somewhat bitterly—and that they could still do normal stuff like Friday movie nights.

Ben was going to move out, something that Peter should have suspected, but shocked him nevertheless.

Peter clenched his hands that were resting on his lap, the nails digging into his palms as he gritted his teeth.

He wanted to say something—perhaps even give them a piece of his mind—but no words came to his mind and his mouth would instead clamp shut when he was about to speak.

“Peter?”

Peter lifted his gaze to meet Ben’s. Before his uncle could continue, Peter questioned suddenly, “Where are you going to stay?”

Ben eyed him for a second before quietly sighing and rubbing his neck. “A couple of blocks from here,” He replied, “I’m staying in an apartment near Stan’s.”

Peter adjusted his glasses, remembering the friendly old man who they frequently encountered—who also never seemed to take off his sunglasses for some reason—whenever they would get sandwiches at Delmar’s.

He shared a look with his aunt before looking back at Ben. “We can visit you… right?”

“Of course, Peter.”

“And you’ll visit too, right?”

He knew that Ben already mentioned Friday movie nights would stay the same, but he still didn’t like the idea of seeing less of his uncle. He’d understand of course, Ben and May needed their space after all.

But he also didn’t like the idea of this becoming a “long-time” thing. His aunt and uncle not being together, in spite of their differences, just seemed… wrong.

Once again, Ben hesitated, while May looked away.

Peter kept his gaze at his uncle as he waited for answer. When the silence prolonged, he felt something akin to disappointment lodge in his chest but at the same time, he furrowed his eyebrows as he realized he must have asked the wrong question.

“I-it’s okay, Ben.” He babbled nervously. “It doesn’t have to be every day, I mean—if you’re really busy, I can understand a-and it’s not really that much of a prob—”

“I will.” Ben promised, mild amusement twinkling in his eyes as Peter suddenly halted to a stop, mouth still open when he intervened.

“Oh.” Peter dumbly said, clamping his mouth shut afterwards.

Ben simply smiled at him, but it easily faded like May’s as the silence settled in once again.

The kettle suddenly whistled shrilly in the air. May slowly stood up from her seat and gestured to the kitchen. “Anyone want tea?” She said as nonchalantly as one could after the conversation they just had.

Ben excused himself quietly, bidding them both a good night before ascending to the stairs.

May’s melancholic gaze lingered on his back until he was gone. Peter could see tears gleaming in her warm, honey eyes but she brushed them away before he could address it. She turned to him, aware that he wasn’t fooled by her attempt at being casual, and again asked, “Tea?”

Peter eyed her for a brief moment, then crossed his arms as a quiet sigh escaped his lips. “Yeah.” He smiled gently. “Got any chamomile?”

May smiled back at him, it was a tiny one but a smile nevertheless. “You bet.”

Peter followed her into the kitchen, but not before throwing a curious glance at where his uncle had gone. _It will be all right_ , he told himself. But for all how optimistic he was capable of, even the words did not sound very convincing to him.

Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair. For now, he would just focus on tea.

* * *

Ben quietly locked the door behind him. His shoulders curving as he sat heavily on the bed and rubbed a hand over his face.

He glanced around the guest room, it gave him a slight claustrophobic vibe with its cramped space along with its dimming light bulb.

The guest room was comparatively smaller in contrast to the rest of the house’s rooms. Since they rarely had any “guests” in the first place, it became somewhat of a storage room for boxes of old clothes, broken chairs, rusty trophies, and the occasional malfunctioning microwave—which didn’t last long even then, not because it was already damaged, but because his nephew had the odd habit—aside from dumpster diving— of scrapping them for parts.

A small smile quirked Ben’s lips. Peter’s curiosity was seemingly limitless; he recalled a story from Richard in which Peter was curious of how far mud puddles can splatter and had jumped into one giant puddle to test his theory.

He did the same thing again when he was nine in spite of the fact that he was wearing a white polo shirt, brown khaki pants, and white shoes—they were supposed to be on their way to church— and explained that he had been bored waiting for them which only served to agitate May even further, no matter how patient and understanding she seemed on the outside.

As quick as the sense of nostalgia came, as quick as it dissipated. The reminder that he has to stay away from his family for the time being made his chest constrict, the weight of what he must do in order to keep them safe…

He'd been a fool to think that he could quit so easily. Not when he was already in too deep.

Ben reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. One pocket was filled with folded notes, cards, and slips of paper. He took out a card, slightly smaller than a business card. It was black, smoother than any paper he’s ever touched, no address or instruction on it but two letters in the center printed in silvery ink.

On the back of the card, in a tiny, precise-handwriting, was a number that had dreaded Ben the moment he recognized who it belonged.

Ben gripped the card tightly between his fingers, his hand beginning to tremble until…

He retrieved his phone from his pocket, entered a secure line, and dialed the number.

It rang once, before a low, rough voice answered.

“Mr. Parker.” The voice said almost immediately, sounding rather pleased.

For a heartbeat or two, Ben considered changing his mind. He considered shutting the phone off, considered taking back the words he said to push May away and plead for forgiveness, considered going back down the kitchen to have tea with her and Peter and make up for all the things he had done, for the things he failed to do for the last couple of months… years.

Ben relaxed his grip by a fraction, his eyes briefly closing and silently cursing for all the stupid mistakes he did that lead up to his circumstances, and then answered in a voice devoid of emotion.

“I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo...  
> \- I CHANGED SOMETHING FROM THE PROLOGUE. Instead of the "ten-ish years" the occupant mentioned, I rewrote it to SEVEN-ISH. For reasons.  
> -If it isn't obvious, Peter is still grieving about his parents even five years have passed by. He doesn't like being reminded of their deaths or anything at all that reminds him too much of them such as his mother's scientific notebooks.  
> -This is somewhat of a "Spider-Man re-imagining" kind of thing since I mixed some stuff from the MCU and little tidbits from the Raimi Trilogy and The Amazing Spider-Man series (and perhaps also include Spider-Man PS4 in the later chapters). So the Peter in this story isn't exactly like MCU Peter, he's more introverted and socially awkward and I suppose the tag "Genius Peter Parker" is pretty much self-explanatory.  
> -The events that follow after Peter's excerpt at the beginning doesn't necessarily mean that he's describing said events immediately after his introduction. Imagine it as like the intro Tobey Maguire did at the beginning of Spider-Man in the first movie.  
> -Harry's school: Sevenoaks School, is a real boarding school located in Europe. Anything I portray in this story that mention Sevenoaks is obviously fictional and has no connection to the real school whatsoever, just in case I might offend a reader who's from Sevenoaks. Better safe than sorry, heh.  
> -Peter's birth date is slightly altered in contrast to the official MCU date which is August 10, 2001. The story will reveal much, much later when his birthday is.  
> -Seymour O'Reilly is character in the comics who also bullies Peter Parker.
> 
> Leave comments, thoughts, or even constructive criticism because I really need help with my writing XD.


	3. Chapter Two: The Mind of Peter Parker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loose threads of the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the people who gave me advice about my near-existential writer crisis a couple of days ago. I decided to continue on in with what I've built in the first few chapters, I can't keep starting again and again and be afraid of keep on going just because I'm uncertain.
> 
> Furthermore, I'd like to remind that Peter and his friends are still 12-13 ish at the moment.

**Chapter Two:**

**The Mind of Peter Parker**

* * *

_It’s a strange thing, being a child, you’d believe that anything was possible at that age. Even I used to think that I could build a particle accelerator with the use of duct tape, batteries, and legos, and I was only four at the time._

_But then as you grow older, you begin to realize things you’ve never realized before as a child. The world wasn't as bright of a place as one would've thought and not everything was entirely possible. You can build many things like electrical cars or solar-powered computers, but you can never invent the one thing everyone needs the most. Time._

_It was the one thing a good friend of mine needed the most, and when he couldn't get it... well, we know how much the death of a love one can turn people into the most unthinkable of things._

* * *

Peter woke early the next morning. Daylight beamed through the curtains of his window but he kept his eyes shut.

“Peter,” A tapping noise rapped behind the door, “you’re going to be late. It’s almost seven.”

“It’s 6:15,” He groaned. “You’re just saying that to get me up.”

“Peter.”

“Fine, I’m up,” Peter mumbled, one hand blindly reaching for his glasses on top his desk “I’m getting up.”

He sat up and tiredly swung his legs over the bed. The emotional turmoil after last night’s conversation with his aunt and uncle had kept him up all night, along with his mind recounting every argument he’s heard from the both of them and figuring a likely explanation as to why they needed “space”, why now, and how long would it last.

So far, he hasn’t come up with an answer for the last one yet. As much as he dislike being cliché, only time can tell. He doesn’t have any precise answers for the other ones either, too many unknown variables such as the reason behind his uncle’s strange behavior. An affair was possible but unlikely—it doesn’t fit Ben or May’s character and Peter knew them rather well— Ben’s job at the NYPD was a factor, the pressure from their department along with the increase of double shifts he’s been taking, but it wasn’t particularly a key variable. May, on the other hand, disliked being in the dark, secrets and such. Usually, his aunt had the patience and tolerance of a saint but even she has a limit to such things.

Apparently, the limit had been last night.

Peter sighed deeply, smoothing his disheveled hair—or at least trying to— back from his eyebrows that were furrowing in frustration. Problems like these weren’t in his range of expertise even though he had read more than a dozen psychology textbooks at the local library. Such things were truly easier read than done, as they say. Besides, even if he were to find a solution, it would undoubtedly require communication… something that was clearly unavailable due to Ben and May wanting “space”.

He headed downstairs after doing the tedious job of folding his blankets and arranging his bed. His nose was hit with the savory smell of bacon, scrambled eggs, and crispy buttered toast wafting in the dining room air. Peter could see May in the kitchen with a plate of stacked pancakes on the counter, finishing the last bits of bacon batter she was pouring into the frying pan. She was wearing a loose blouse that almost looked like it was hanging on her, her hair was tied up in a knot, and if he could observe more carefully, there were dark circles beneath her eyes.

Peter glanced back at the table, two plates and two sets of knife and fork. No mug of steaming black coffee in sight, the kind of coffee Ben often drank in the morning.

_Left early_ , Peter inferred, _again_. He quietly sighed and turned to his aunt. “Good morning.”

May let out a yelp, immediately pointing the spatula at Peter’s direction.

Peter raised his hands in mock surrender. “I come in peace.”

“ _Peter_.” She huffed out a relieved yet annoyed sigh, which almost made Peter feel bad but her reaction with the spatula as a weapon had remained glued to his mind. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to see you staring at that pancake like the time I found out Santa wasn’t real.”

“Very funny.”

“I try.”

“And you’ve always known Santa wasn’t real.” She retorted. “What are you on this time? The science of humor?”

Peter retrieved a bottle of maple syrup from the shelf and followed his aunt back to the dining room. “Not at the moment,” He answered, “however, I have read an article that discussed theories focusing of the evolution of laughter. They also said that it’s an important aspect to communication.”

Not his greatest attempt at hinting one thing to another. Even if May got the hint, she showed no signs of showing it.

“Uh-huh.

“And communication is apparently very important in relationships.”

“I’m getting tea,” Her chair loudly scraped against the floor as she stood up, “excuse me.”

Now Peter truly felt bad. As soon as she came back, he thought of a way to properly apologize all the while inwardly scolding himself. He thought for a few minutes, managing to eat a toast and a pancake, but when she returned, his mind came up blank. “Sorry.” He simply said, averting his gaze and focused on his toast instead.

May regarded him under raised eyebrows, her eyes softening. “I know what you’re trying to do.” She stated gently. “But this isn’t something anyone can fix or solve easily.”

Peter, apparently chastised, nodded in acquiesce.

“Ben and I, we have some of our ups and downs. I understand that it’s new, it’s new for me too, it’s the first time we actually…” She vaguely gestured to her surrounding, “but it’s between us, Pete. We’ll be the ones fixing it, but…”

When she hesitated to continue, Peter looked up from his plate. His throat constricted when he saw her eyes were brimming with tears.

“For now, you need space?” He offered quietly.

“Time. We need time.”

Peter nodded solemnly. “I’m sorry again,” He repeated, “I didn’t mean to sound so thoughtless.”

She let out a quiet chuckle. “I know,” She reached one hand out and wrapped it around his, squeezing reassuringly, “A+ for effort though.”

The corners of Peter’s lips tugged into a smile.

“You’re almost late for real this time, by the way.”

His smiled faded. He turned to look at the clock. 6:50, which meant…

“It really was almost seven.” He whispered in horror. From across the table, May covered a smirk behind her cup of tea.

He had no time to retort, but had enough time to shoot a glare at his aunt all the while scrambling towards the bathroom.

* * *

So breakfast was ruined, literally and kind of figuratively. Figuratively because he had greeted May with a good morning and brought up her not-so-okay relationship with Ben, his fault for doing so anyway.

And literally, because May had to pack up the bacon, eggs, and toast for his lunch—which would all be greasier and cold later on—while she dined back home, savoring food that was _warm_ and _ambrosial_ in its freshly cooked greasiness.

Of course Peter could get lunch instead from the cafeteria, but today’s menu consisted of a hamburger, mashed potato, a banana, and a juice box. Not exactly the best substitute. He blew out a breath and decided to deal with it later on.

No longer dwelling on food, Peter focused his attention on the teacher in front of him. Among the lessons for today were elements, chemical compounds, and mixtures. Subjects that he had already encountered back when he was six years old. _Dad’s books really paid off,_ he thought pensively.

Their adviser and chemistry teacher, Irwin Marcus, was a bespectacled man with thinning red hair and a seemingly permanent frown on his face. He was quite known for being particularly vicious when it comes to grades as well as for being slightly controversial—depending on one’s definition of controversial—due the fact that he often gave additional educational material that wasn’t supposed to be in their curriculum. Be it next grade’s topics or AP Chemistry from college.

Some who used to be his students, especially those who are now in college, thanked him for it, while high school students—his current students—despised him. Not always for the lessons, but for the extra quizzes, assignments, projects, etc. that he gave almost every week.

“Here’s a bonus question.” Mr. Marcus raised suddenly. “What chemical equation represents the reaction of…”

_So this is what eternity feels like._

Peter heaved a sigh, trying not to fall asleep with utmost difficulty as the teacher drawled on. He barely survived economics two hours ago. As soon as classes end, he was heading straight to the public library.

A boy with tawny skin and dark curly hair raised his hand immediately.

“Wrong.” Mr. Marcus shot down, also immediately, before the boy even gave an answer.

He spluttered.

“Again, Mr. Thompson. Being fast is meaningless when you’re wrong.”

The boy—Flash Thompson, Peter sleepily recalled—crossed his arms and muttered darkly under his breath. If he remembered correctly—which he was having trouble with because his eyelids were as heavy as anchors—he was the same guy who decided to nickname him _Penis Parker_ after one student mispronounced “Peter” due to the class secretary’s loopy handwriting. Poor Sally was class secretary no more afterwards.

“Parker!” Mr. Marcus barked.

Peter immediately stiffened. _Crap_.

“Since my class is apparently too boring for you, seeing as this is the sixth time this month I’ve seen you drooling on my desk—”

The class laughed. Peter’s ears burned. No matter, he can get himself out of trouble once he gets told to answer the question the teacher posed.

“—why don’t you give us a rundown of a much more interesting lesson?”

_Wait, what?_ “What?”

“Explain the basics of organic chemistry.”

Peter furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “Sir, that’s a senior subject.”

“I know. Explain the basics of organic chemistry.”

All eyes were on him, one or two looked actually quite concerned, some looking bored and waiting for it to be over, while majority of the class looked in anticipation at his inevitable embarrassment. In his seat, Peter began to fidget. He hated being noticed. He was lucky enough that only a handful of people noticed him since Flash’s stupid “Penis Parker” thing!

Before he could open his mouth, the school bell’s shrill ring saved him just in time.

“Class dismissed.” Mr. Marcus turned his back and marched off to his own desk. Peter heaved a sigh of relief as he grabbed his bag, until—

“Except you.”

It didn’t need a genius to figure who “you” meant. Peter suppressed the desire to groan and slowly sat back on his seat. So much for May’s greasy lunch.

The rest of the class began to disperse, some looking at him in amusement as they left while Flash’s haughty grin appeared in his peripheral. “Great job, Penis Parker.”

Peter offered a half-hearted thumbs up, ducking his head as they snickered behind his back.

“Mr. Parker.” Mr. Marcus called from his desk.

Peter begrudgingly stood from his seat, slinging his back over his shoulder. “Sir,” He began, attempting not to stammer, “I, uh, I apologize for sleeping in your class— “

“ _A_ and _B_ are two events.” Mr. Marcus interjected. “Suppose the probability that neither _A_ or _B_ occurs is 2/3. What is the probability that one or both occur?”

Peter frowned, confused. “Sir?”

Mr. Marcus remained quiet, his eyes gazing as if it was piercing his soul.

In his mind, Peter was already visualizing the problem. It was a simple question of probability. But he was curious as to why his teacher was suddenly asking him this. When Mr. Marcus still said nothing, Peter gave a small shrug and decided to humor him.

“1/3”

“How do you integrate X squared times E to the minus X without the use of a calculator?”

“Feynman's trick. Differentiate under the integral sign.”

“How do you quantify the strength of materials?”

“Young's modulus.”

“A full house in poker is a hand where three cards share one rank and two cards share another rank. What is the probability of getting a full house?”

Peter realized where this line of questioning was going. His grip tightened around his strap as he chewed his cheek.

“0.00144” 

Mr. Marcus finally stopped firing questions. Then he said, “You’re not that very good at secrets, are you, Mr. Parker?”

Peter refused to meet his gaze, inwardly scolding himself for not realizing much earlier.

The teacher placed a stapled booklet on his desk, pushing it towards the confused teen. It was the pre-assessment test they had last week. Every adviser was supposed to give their assigned section this booklet which contained a series of a tests in three particular subjects. They were told to be completely truthful in their answers so the teachers would be able to evaluate their class’s strengths and weaknesses.

Initially, Mr. Marcus’ students had all been confused as to why they had to do their pre-assessment _twice_ , but knowing him even though it’s only been a few weeks since classes started, it didn’t take them long to comprehend that the only thing they could do was just shut up and deal with it. No matter how the second pre-assessment test nearly blew off every last remaining brain cell they had.

Nevertheless, pre-assessment tests weren’t counted in the evaluation of their grades. One of the blessings of Midtown Tech.

Peter swallowed in his throat, viewing the harmless booklet as something that was definitely not a blessing. He had suspected that something was definitely strange with that test. 

“Do you know what this test really is, Mr. Parker?”

Peter glanced at his teacher, just enough to show he was listening.

“Some questions in this test” Mr. Marcus explained, “were selected from a certain exam paper from a university in which you might be quite familiar with: The Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

“And two of the questions I just gave you are found in this booklet. Both of which are blank like the rest of your classmates, so, I’m very, very surprised that you’re able to correctly answer them _now_ right on the spot.”

Peter was glued to said spot, although he was no longer fidgeting uncomfortably. He was also suppressing the need to roll his eyes, Mr. Marcus’ words almost reminded him of the teachers from his previous school.

Almost.

Mr. Marcus folded his fingers. “You’re deliberately trying to fail.” He stated, plain and simple, “or at least, deliberately being academically dishonest of your intellect.”

“With all due respect sir," Peter said "but deliberately giving a test meant for college students just for the heck of it can also be considered as you say, _academic dishonesty_.”

“And yet, I can simply say that the test got mixed in by mistake.”

Peter stared.

“If I may ask, where is this going?” He queried tonelessly.

“Why did you lie?”

“I didn’t _lie_.” Peter retorted through gritted teeth.

Technically, it was lying but still.

He thought hard of a way to get out of this. None came to mind. “I didn’t want anyone to know.” He answered, resigned.

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

Mr. Marcus sighed. “Very well, Mr. Parker. Have it your way. It’s only been three weeks since classes started, but are you really willing to spend the rest of years here, bored and uninspired? To sit in that chair as another teacher—who is probably more boring than I already seem to be to you—drawl on and on about topics you already know about long before you came to this school?”

Peter considered his teacher’s words.

“What do you suggest?” He mumbled more than asked.

“I suggest adjusting your curriculum and finding out where you’re really at academically, perhaps skip a grade or two—”

Peter’s mouth opened to interject but stopped when Mr. Marcus raised a finger. “Merely my suggestions.” He said, then he began packing up his stuff, dismissing Peter with a vague gesture to the door. Before he could leave, Mr. Marcus turned to him once more and spoke with a tone the teachers in his old school never used. Understanding.

“In the end, the choice is really up to you, Peter.”

* * *

Lunch had been, to put it plainly, cold and gross. Making a sandwich out of buttered toast with scrambled eggs and bacon would have probably tasted better if it wasn’t… well, _cold_ and _gross_.

The school cafeteria was run by an ex-army cook who seemed to be fascinated with the smell of bleach. But at least when the food came, it was piping hot and actually tasted delicious once you ignore its “bleachy-ness” smell.

Nevertheless, Peter had decided to stick to his latest sandwich creation. He wasn’t in the mood to get in line like the rest of the students—mostly freshman like him—who are already filling in to get their hamburgers, mashed potato, bananas, and juice boxes. Around him, the rest of his surroundings was a cacophony of loud chatter, nearly every table was huddled with people raising their voices to be heard above the racket.

How they managed to handle all the chaos around them, Peter didn’t bother to know.

Later that day, once classes were finally over and no more pestering teachers wanted to have a word with him, Peter headed straight to his sanctuary—the public library.

Along the way out of the school gate, he saw Ned. The boy greeting him enthusiastically as he began to rapidly tell him about how awesome the new Kick-Ass movie was with the new Star Trek movie then talked about how video games were getting cooler with their graphics and that in the future it could have gameplay graphics like the ones in cut scenes and so on and so forth.

Things were _slightly_ less boring when Ned was around. He was also one of the few who actually noticed him during his first week in Midtown High and strangely didn’t saw him as invisible. They didn’t share most classes but ever since they met, there was almost not a day that they didn’t hang out.

Peter didn’t mind his babble but listened anyway, just like how Ned wasn’t much of a fan for books and libraries, but went with Peter anyway. Plus, now that the public library was improved and remodeled last summer, Ned could just use his laptop and connect to the free Wi-Fi. 

They didn’t know each other very well yet, but Ned could tell how much books meant to his friend, though he didn’t exactly know why.

As Peter walked by row after row of neatly arranged books—fantasy, science-fiction, young adults, encyclopedia—the words of his teacher echoed in his head.

As much as he doesn’t like admitting it, Mr. Marcus was right. He’s been nothing but bored since he came to Midtown High, but the choice had been this or continue the rest of his teenage years at his previous school—where apparently, the teachers only take interest in you once they realize you can add more fame and fortune to their institute that was already sitting self-importantly on a hilltop.

Peter ran a hand over his hair—he really needs to stop doing that, his hair was as tousled as it is—and considered discussing it with his aunt and uncle once he gets home.

_Aunt_ , he reminded himself, a pang of disappointment in his chest.

His uncle had texted earlier that he would be unable to visit until Saturday. For a minute or two, his fingers had hovered over his screen before finally typing a reply that he understood, as well as inwardly telling himself not to expect too much in the future. _They need time and space, Pete._ He lectured himself halfheartedly. _Time and space_.

On one hand, he didn’t really want to burden them further with his own problems anyway.

And yet, the last time he had decidedly not to “burden” them, his aunt had been as furious as a hybrid between a fire-breathing dragon-witch while his uncle went for the classic disapproving, disappointed look.

Later on, he came to realize that the anger and disappointment wasn’t really directed at him.

Hell hath no fury like his Aunt May screaming at a grown man—Principal Brown, who had three Ph.D.’s and a Field’s Medal—cowering behind his table.

“Hey, knock it off!”

A loud thud seized Peter’s attention, the unmistakable sound of someone being shoved to the ground, laptop crashing, and a painful grunt following suit.

He swiveled his head to where the commotion was coming from. Seven rows of bookcases across from where he was standing, near the library’s entrance hall, was a group of teenagers in well-dressed school uniforms standing over a short, dark-haired Asian boy with pudgy arms and legs.

Peter immediately noticed two things.

One, he recognized the boy on the floor, it was Ned.

Two, he also recognized the tall blond boy standing right in front of Ned, someone that Peter had really wished to be anyone else but _him_.

“Better watch where you’re going, dumbass.” Seymour O’Reilly taunted with that ever present sneer on his rat-like face.

It had always been apparent to Peter that this boy was used to having a golden spoon to his mouth. The overconfident way he moved and spoke screamed that he had a terrible overdeveloped sense of entitlement.

The two other boys who flanked him—Peter’s old schoolmates as well, both looking just as pompous as he remembered them to be—exchanged a callous look of glee.

Without a second thought, Peter strode off to the boys. “Leave him alone.” His voice was devoid of emotion, but his heart was pounding like a drum.

The three boys whirled their heads towards him, eyes widening in surprise that was quickly replaced with disdain as Peter unhesitatingly picked Ned’s laptop from the floor and helped him on his feet.

“Come on.” He started to usher Ned out but Seymour and his fellow cronies blocked their path.

“Hey, what’s the rush? Can’t I just say hello?” His voice was like a chalk scraping across a blackboard. His eyes raked Peter up and down who no longer wore the pristine _St. Bartleby’s School for the Erudite_ uniform and now wore jeans and a green flannel jacket that looked too large on him.

Seymour grinned nastily. “How’s life in the downstate, Petey?”

“What do you want?”

“Is it really that hard to believe that I just want to say hi?”

“Yes.” He replied flatly. “Please get out of the way.”

Seymour took a step forward, Peter’s eyes remained on him unblinkingly without the need to raise his head. “You want a go?”

“I’m not gonna fight you, Seymour.”

“Why? You chicken?”

“At least I don’t wet the bed.”

The words sliced through the thick atmosphere as everyone stared at Seymour, whose face had turned beetroot red and was sputtering in indignation.

“No, I don’t!” He finally shouted, loud enough to attract attention from the other library visitors.

Peter almost snorted. Seymour had accused him of the same thing when they were younger. When he had told his father about the incident, he pointed out that the bully had done so to compensate for his own shame.

Furthermore, Peter smelled urine very faintly when Seymour had taken a step closer to his face. Apparently, he still wets the bed at night.

He allowed a knowing smirk on his face. Seymour’s face twisted, a vein popping in his forehead, he was about throw his fist when a woman in an olive green blouse and gray pencil skirt stood between Seymour and Peter.

“What is going on here?” The woman whispered furiously. “This is a library, not a school playground.

“If none of you troublemakers are here to do anything related to books, I suggest you _get_ _out_.”

She gestured to the entrance hall, shooing them in separate directions while shooting each boy a scolding look. They ducked their heads in embarrassment and apologized quietly. Even Seymour and his gang, considering they had to keep up with the reputation of their prim and proper school.

“This isn’t over, Parker.” Seymour glared sharply as a new knife. “Next time, you’re going to pay.”

Peter raised his chin. “Debit or credit?”

Seymour was momentarily thrown off by the statement before his face twisted ugly again and his eyes flash in anger. He was just about to retort when the two boys behind him sniggered before immediately shutting up.

Seymour looked murderous.

He sends one final glare at Peter and stalks off to the opposite direction, pushing past his friends who nevertheless follow him like dutiful servants.

Peter huffed out a breath, resigned. He might regret that someday, but as long that day wasn’t today, he’s not going to care.

Plus, it wasn’t the first nor certainly won’t be the last time he was threatened.

 _What the hell were they doing in the library anyway?_ St. Bartleby was like miles away. Added to that, seeing Seymour and his goons in a library was as weird as seeing a turtle out of its shell.

_So much for a new school, a new start_.

“Hey, Pete?”

Ned was glancing at him and where Seymour had gone with an uncertain expression. “Who were those…?”

“Some people I know back at my old school.”

“What? You went to St. Bartleby’s?!” Ned excitedly said, then lowered his voice when the librarian turned sharply at his direction.

Peter tugged Ned to the exit.

“Yeah.” He muttered unenthusiastically.

“Dude, that’s like a school full of geniuses!”

“Really? You think Seymour’s a genius?”

‘Well, not exactly—hey! You’re avoiding the real question.”

Peter knew what “the real question” was. “So I got in, big deal.” He dismissed with a wave.

“Of course it’s a big deal! A few years ago, I heard there was this whiz kid who won the International Science and Engineering fair when he was just _ten!_ He invented a re-purposed land mine detector that uses sound waves to determine where explosives are found and not to mention he also builds mini-generators for _fun_ , I mean, who the hell does that? It’s just too bad that he left the school a year ago and no one really knows what happened to him after—OH MY GOD THAT WAS Y—”

Peter placed his palm over Ned’s mouth. “Ned,” He calmly began “you’re my friend and I care about you.

“But please shut up.”

Ned nodded vigorously, eyes wide.

Although, knowing how Ned’s curiosity could rival his own, he allowed him one question.

“Okay, okay, let me think for a moment.”

A moment turned into a _long_ moment. Peter and Ned spent their entire trip to the train station, until finally, before they board on separate trains, Ned found his question.

“Why did you leave the school?”

“Because of people like Seymour O’Reilly.”

“Oh.” Then Ned frowned at himself. "Should've thought harder for a better question."

* * *

 _What a day_ , Peter thought as he massaged his throbbing temples, the effects of two sleepless nights was beginning to take its toll on him. He could just drink coffee, but it affected his heart rate too much. It was like the Flash was zooming in and out of a never ending loop that was actually his heart for thirty to sixty minutes’ top.

The familiar structure of their house came into view. While he was on the train, he practiced for almost an hour on how to explain his “issue” to May.

Peter crossed over the threshold. He paused as he heard chatter within the house. _Did Ben came over?_ The thought almost delighted him until he realized that the person in the house didn’t sound like his uncle. Strange, his aunt didn’t mention any visitors earlier.

He knocked twice on the door, grabbed the knob and twisted it. The door swung open and he saw his aunt speaking to a man he hasn’t seen for almost three years.

“Peter,” Norman Osborn smiled, “long time no see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -There are several changes from the prologue and the first chapter, nothing entirely too major. Nevertheless, I suggest you guys check it out.  
> -"St. Bartleby" is something that I borrowed from the Artemis Fowl series (don't watch the movie, it's a disgrace, with respect to the hard work put into it)  
> -I know that at the present moment, Peter is a bit solemn and not yet his talkative self. Remember that he's an incredibly brilliant kid in a school that in spite being a STEM school, he's not mentally challenged. Imagine a lamborghini being forced to drive in a highway full of Hondas and Nissans... not that there's anything wrong with Hondas and Nissans.  
> -The re-purposed land mine detector was actually invented by a brilliant young scientist named Marian Bechtel back in 2012.  
> -I'll have trouble sleeping if I don't put this here but my imagination lacked at the bullying scene so I reread a few stories and rediscovered nox_candida's Getting Better story in the Sherlock fandom. I borrowed a similar scene from there and drew inspiration. I suggest you guys check it out as well if you're fans of Sherlock.


	4. Chapter Three: Skeletons in the Chest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are always fragments of the puzzle that lead to the truth.

**Chapter Three:**

**Skeletons in the Chest**

* * *

Peter managed not to stare too long and/or open his mouth in shock like an idiot. Mr. Osborn looked almost exactly like the last time he saw him. Dressed in a suit that was undoubtedly tailored just for him, reddish brown hair, and sharp hazel eyes in a pointed, sparsely wrinkling face. He smiled in a familial way, looking faintly amused at Peter’s wide-eyed expression.

“Mr. Osborn,” Peter stammered, “I didn’t know you were here, I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with you being here, I mean, uh—”

“Slow down.” Mr. Osborn lightly chuckled. “I understand my visit’s quite the surprise—apologies again, May—one of my meetings happened to be in Queens. Figured it was time to finally visit a few friends of the family.”

Peter nodded, sitting down next to May. He wasn’t entirely sure what to feel about the visit.

From what he knew, his parents had been quite close to the Osborns. He could remember a few Christmas dinners with them, the grownups busy in the lounge as they chatted and drank wine—which Peter thought at the time as grape juice that burns one’s throat—while he and Harry would explore around the manor, finding odd treasures and trinkets, then “studying” them like the scientists their parents were.

His parents’… deaths, had been so sudden, the way they were swiftly ripped out of his life and left a large hollow-like void in his chest that he could still feel, even though it’s almost been five years since that terrible day.

It also seemed to rip the bonds within the Osborn family.

A memory flashed in his mind. Emily Osborn, looking rather frail and pale at the day of the funeral, had stood apart from Norman Osborn during the ceremony with her son. Harry had confined in him many times before that his parents were always arguing about all sorts of things, but things seemed to have worsened after that particular day, as the days passed, as Mrs. Osborn slowly succumbed to her sickness…

At that moment, Mr. Osborn turned his attention to him and said “So, Peter. How have you been? I heard you transferred to a new school?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, “classes just started a few weeks ago.”

“Midtown School of Science and Technology. It shouldn’t be a surprise to anyone that you got in, won every trophy in the science department yet?” He smiled good-humoredly.

“Er—no. After the, um, incident back at the academy, I figured I should take a break from the whole ‘science-y’ stuff for a while.”

They all knew what incident he was referring to, May’s eyes crinkling in irritation at the memory while Mr. Osborn’s nodded a bit grimly. “I understand.” He said. “Well, I suppose I’ll be seeing you next Friday at Oscorp. As you already know, Harry’s going to be there with his team.”

Peter, obviously, did not know. “Harry?” He asked, surprised. “Harry’s in New York?”

Mr. Osborn lifted a confused eyebrow. “He didn’t tell you? He enrolled back at St. Bartleby’s.”

Peter’s mouth almost hung open. “I—I didn’t know.”

He hasn’t received any letters or e-mails from Harry for the last three years. Sure, he saw him from time to time on the magazines or occasionally on the television with his father, but he hasn’t heard a word from him since that last letter. A part of Peter was hurt, stemmed from being unacknowledged by his childhood best friend after all these years, but then a logical, much bigger part explained that perhaps Harry had been too busy or that it had slipped from his mind.

“I’ll check my e-mail.” He continued almost hastily when he realized that he had gone quiet for more than a second. “He might have sent something, I think.”

“Well, he _is_ getting busy nowadays.” Mr. Osborn sipped from his cup. “He and his team are participating in the NY Science Fair this December. It’s a shame you two are no longer in the same school, the two of you could have upgraded your ‘marshmallow cannon’.”

“Ah, yes. The marshmallow cannon.” May dully said. “The one that hit Principal whatshisname between the eyes.”

“Principal Brown,” Peter reminded, the tips of his ears turning pink, “and again, it was an accident!”

May and Mr. Osborn shared a knowing look.

“Uh-huh.”

“Yes, Harry had insisted numerously as well.”

Peter refused to groan out loud like a child. Though the memory of five marshmallows rapidly hitting Principal Brown’s face could still bring tears of laughter to anyone’s eyes—especially Peter and Harry who were only seven at the time and still are unapologetic of the incident. Though neither was going to admit that out loud.

The tips of his ears turned pink as May and Mr. Osborn continued to remark about Peter and Harry’s shenanigans when they were younger.

It was quite the peculiar sight, Mr. Osborn has always been rather cold and somewhat distant if the news had any grain of truth in them. Even the memories from when Peter was younger depicted a no-nonsense sort of man that spoke with an air of confidence and charm especially when he was in front of the public, and yet here he was talking to them like old friends that had just seen each other yesterday and not three years ago.

“Well,” Mr. Osborn checked his watch, “I better get going. Shame I couldn’t meet Ben, how is he by the way? Still at the NYPD?”

“Yes,” May’s smile tightened briefly, “he’s doing okay.”

If Mr. Osborn noticed her tone, he didn’t show it. “Well, give him my regards.” He smiled disarmingly. “It was good meeting you all again. I know I should have visited long ago but you know how businesses are.”

“It’s fine.” May waved dismissively. “You and Harry are always welcome here, Norman.”

Mr. Osborn nodded and turned to Peter. “I suppose I’ll inform Harry as well that you’re going to be in the field trip. It was good seeing you again, Peter.” He studied him for a few seconds, the smile in his face turning rather pensive. “You’ve grown.”

Peter didn’t know what to properly respond to that. He never did, even when it was Uncle Ben or Aunt May saying similar things such as “you have your father’s eyes” or “you sound a lot like your mom”. So, as politely as he can, he replied, “Thank you, sir.”

Something flashed in Mr. Osborn’s eyes but it vanished too quickly that Peter wasn’t so sure what it was. He realized that he was looking at him in a similar way he had at the day of the funeral, with the same expression Peter still couldn’t figure what.

“I know that in spite of the… challenges, over the years, you’ve always been a brother to Harry. That makes you family, both of you.” He began. “If there’s anything you need, just give me a call.”

May’s smile was more genuine this time. “Thank you.”

Mr. Osborn exchanged goodbyes with them and left through the front door. Peter’s ears perked up the sound of a car just arriving on their front lawn, he glanced at the window and was unsurprised when he saw a sleek black Mercedes right in front of their gate. Mr. Osborn got in though not without turning back, the strange expression still on his face, before shutting the car door closed.

The car smoothly drove off, north of the neighborhood.

“Well,” He heard May gathering the cups and letting out a sigh, “that was quite the surprise.”

“Yeah…” Peter rubbed the back of his neck, “did he really just popped out of nowhere like, I don’t know, a jack-in-the-box?”

“Sweetie, you need to get better at your metaphors, but yes. I supposed he did pop out of nowhere…like a jack-in-the-box.”

“Huh.”

“What about you?” She asked. “You okay?”

Peter furrowed his eyebrows. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

May merely stared at him with a raised eyebrow. “Harry.” She answered. “You were pretty upset when he stopped sending letters.”

“No, I wasn’t.” Peter mumbled, but then sighed and collapsed on the couch. “Fine, I was. It was kind of abrupt too anyway. I know he wasn’t doing okay after… after Mrs. Osborn died.

“He helped me a lot when mom and dad… I wanted to be there for him too, even when he was going away to Europe.” Peter continued somberly. “‘Sides, the last letter he sent wasn’t exactly a goodbye before going AWOL for the next three years.”

He leaned back on the couch. “Saying “hi” every once in a while isn’t much to ask.” He muttered under his breath.

Peter widened his eyes over what he said. Harry was still grieving back then, while Peter still wished that his friend had said at least something over the years, it wasn’t his fault. Circumstances change, something must have come up maybe, and even if Harry had suddenly decided to be no longer friends with him…

“Sorry,” He said to May who was looking at him in concern, “that was dramatic of me.”

His aunt placed the tray of cups down on the coffee table and sat beside him. She rubbed a hand over his arm. “It’s okay to be upset—ah, ah, yes you were and still are—Harry’s going to be in the field trip, right?”

Peter nodded.

“So, maybe the two of you can talk or go hang out or I don’t know what you kids do these days but you get my point.”

“It’s not as easy as that, May.” Peter groaned. “How did _you_ feel when Mr. Osborn suddenly appeared in our home?”

“That’s different—” Peter lifted an eyebrow, “—fine, not that different. But there’s no harm in trying, right?”

Peter mulled over her words. The encounter would be definitely awkward. He has no idea how Harry would react, maybe with enthusiasm? Indifference? A lot could have happened in three years, a lot of time for anyone to change.

And yet, his aunt was right once again. He can go on and on with all the ways how the encounter could go wrong, but he’ll never know for sure unless he tries.

“Right,” He conceded with a quiet sigh, “I’ll consider it.”

“Good,” May patted his arm, “and maybe next time tell me in advance that there’s a fieldtrip?”

“I _was_ planning on telling.” Peter explained. “It’s been a busy month and I just… forgot.”

“Oh? The brilliant beautiful mind of Peter Parker forgot something?” May had already stood up to take the tray to the kitchen, a teasing smile on her expression. Peter followed her, hands in his jean pockets. He almost bumped into a stack of boxes around the kitchen island, dusty and marked with labels that didn’t quite match its contents.

“Believe it or not, it happens.” Peter said, a bit absently, a question in his expression as he stared at the boxes. He looked back at the living room and noticed there were boxes too behind the couches. “Did you clean out the basement?”

“Yep.” May answered nonchalantly.

“Is this about the house?”

His aunt’s gaze turned to him, a sigh escaping her lips as she placed the cups into the sink. “Paying bills is mine and your uncle’s problems, Pete.” She said. “Don’t worry your head about it.”

Peter frowned, but didn’t bother to reply, knowing it was futile. He could think of a hundred ways to help, but no matter what, he’d get the same response over and over: _Just be happy, Peter._

_How did that even count as helping out?_ Peter thought with a sigh. “So…” He sat on a nearby stool and propped his cheek on one hand. “Find anything cool in the basement?”

A contemplative expression passed over May’s features. Strangely, a small smile tugged the corners of her lips as she glanced at him. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

She reached into a cupboard and retrieved a black box that was no bigger than the size of her hand. Peter stared at the box, eyebrows furrowing in confusion, when his aunt placed it on top of the table.

“This” Gently, she opened the box and revealed its content, “belonged to your father.”

Peter’s eyes widened, his eyes flicked to the watch, heart beginning to pound as he studied it with something close to wonder.

It was an odd-looking timepiece. The straps were made out of smooth, black leather. The watch itself looked like a rectangular digital screen that was encased in silver with faint scratches all over its surface and three tiny bumps protruding from each side.

Almost cautiously, Peter placed the watch on his palm. It was a bit heavy and certainly wouldn’t fit his thin and twig-like wrists, not to mention the watch was probably too old or broken, but it had belonged to his father.

_“Be brave.”_

His hand closed over the broken watch. He swallowed the lump past his throat and looked up at his aunt. “Thank you for giving it to me.”

May squeezed his right shoulder while her other hand rubbed his back.

Peter stood up from his seat, hands slightly trembling. “I’ll go change for a bit.” He placed the watch back into its box, glancing at May under his eyebrows, slightly embarrassed for nearly crying in front of her.

As always, it was s like she already knew what was going in his head although she made no comment about it. “I’ll call you when it’s time for dinner.” She squeezed his shoulder another time.

Peter nodded, not precisely trusting himself to speak. But before he could take a step towards the stairs, “May,” He worked his throat for a few seconds, and then met her gaze and said again, “thank you.”

* * *

The door closed softly once he entered his room.

Peter huffed a sigh as he pressed his back against the door behind him and slid down to the floor.

He couldn’t push away the memories of his parents now that May showed him the watch.

It still hurt to think about them now and then but remembering the happy moments they had spent together lessened the pain even just a bit.

And yet, most times, the memories would be often too much and might just end up drowning him in an ocean of misery and despair.

Most times, they led to him jolting awake at night, screaming for the people who were no longer there 

These thoughts flashed through Peter’s mind in seconds. He ran a hand over his hair and turned his gaze at the box in his hands, its dark color a stark contrast to the lighting in the room—rays of orange-yellow light streaming through his window.

He opened the box and with the same caution as earlier, placed the watch on his palm. He wondered if he could fix it perhaps.

The screen’s surface only had faint scratches that weren’t too noticeable unless one was looking for it, the leather surprisingly remained firm, and its magnetic clasp seemed strong enough to hold a penny. A question came to Peter’s mind: digital watches weren’t so common back in his parents’ days. Perhaps his father had invented it on his own?

It was plausible. While he didn’t do it very often, his father had a knack for fixing and/or modifying things. Even his uncle mentioned it from time to time before, besides, where else would he have learned to fix the television after dismantling it back when he was four?

_How do I turn it on?_ Peter turned the watch over. Strangely enough, there wasn’t a container for batteries, the metal behind it was bare. Another thought came to his mind. _Maybe it’s chargeable?_

He shook the idea away, it sounded ridiculous. Who would charge a watch?

Sighing another time, the boy turned the watch back to its original position and let his fingers glide over the smooth bumps on its sides.

He was half-tempted to pry it open and study its mechanisms, but it seemed too early to do so… and wrong. After all, it wasn’t just an ordinary watch, it was one that had belonged to his father.

A faint click distracted Peter from his thoughts. His eyes flicked to the watch, realizing that its screen had lit up. His index finger was still pressing on a bump—then Peter realize it wasn’t a bump, but a button.

“What the heck…?”

Something appeared on the screen—it didn’t show the time—but a white silhouette of what was shaped to be a bird encircled within a ring. Below the logo was a bar that slowly started and then rapidly progressed to the end. He couldn’t remove his eyes, let alone blink, as the watch continued to do… whatever the hell it was doing.

A line of text replaced the progress bar below the eagle figure.

_Transmission to N.J.F. Complete._

Then it turned off.

“Wait, what?” Peter hastily got up on his feet, his glasses sliding down his nose as he stared at the watch in disbelief. It had suddenly shut down and looked like there was no way of turning it back on again.

Peter groaned loudly; did he break it for good? “I’m an idiot.” He muttered under his breath, grabbing a fistful of his hair with his unoccupied hand.

He glared at the watch on his other hand. Something prickled at the back of his head. What did it mean by transmission complete? Transmitted what and to where? The watch’s manufacturing company?

He tried pressing the buttons again, one at a time, two at a time, all at once, nothing. Peter thought of several combinations and patterns he could think of, repeating one or two more than just a couple of times, but with no sign of the watch turning back on, he gave up. A sigh escaped his lips as he flopped onto his bed.

Perhaps he was being too hard on himself, the back of his mind thought. He raised the watch to his line of sight. It was surprising that the watch even had a transmission function, whatever it transmitted and to where.

When he could no longer figure out a way to turn it on without prying the timepiece open, Peter placed it back on its box, his hand almost instinctively reaching for the chest under his bed to place it with the rest of his parents’ belongings. He gently placed the box on the right corner of the chest, pulling out and rearranging one or two albums to give it space to fit in. 

He never really opened the chest very often. It took him two years to even get a look of what was inside it—ten journals, three albums, seven scientific notebooks—before finally having the courage to examine the items without getting an anxiety attack.

But during the times that he had opened it, as he read his father’s journal entries, his mother’s notes and the little scribbles she left on the albums and books, it felt like he was still talking to him even though…

There hadn’t been any bodies to bury.

His eight-year-old mind hadn’t entirely comprehended what it meant back then, but he understood enough. The plane had crashed into the Atlantic Ocean, the storm brewing at the time made it difficult for the search party to locate the crash site, nevertheless… there hadn’t been much to recover when they finally did.

It was why he held on to the notebooks and journals they left behind. Why he read the entries, the notes, the scribbles they left on the albums and books, it felt like that they were still there.

Pensiveness wrapped around Peter as realization settled in his mind. Five years, it would be five years since they’ve been gone by next week.

He suddenly felt tired, his shoulders hunching as he started to sort out the books albeit absentmindedly. There was homework to do as usual, but he could do that later, what he wanted to do now was to get some sleep.

He was about to return the last book back—the last album his parents owned—when something caught his attention.

A single piece of paper peeked from its old, worn cover. It was folded, a light shade of brown with a golden hue, the words on the front were old and faded that were written in a messy, shaky handwriting.

_To Mary Parker._

Peter raised a curious eyebrow. He closed the chest, crossing his legs as he sat on the floor, the heavy album still on his hand as he stared at the paper in growing curiosity. He gently pulled it from the cover, leaning forward from seat. He unfolded the letter and started reading whatever was in it, thinking that maybe it was a message from a friend or even from his aunt or uncle back when his parents were still alive.

But what he saw only made him dizzy with horror.

There was a picture of a workplace, pristine white walls, equipment that he hadn’t seen before decorated the place, test tubes, vials, a tray of syringes laid on top of metallic tables, it was like one of those futuristic labs in sci-fi movies. The kind that would have made people like Tony Stark jealous.

But Peter paid such details of the image no mind, all but one. The picture was blurry and if he could guess, it looked like it was photographed behind a glass wall, but he could see the shape of someone—a young man or woman with a shaved head wearing a hospital gown—writhing wildly on the far corner of the picture. The person was strapped down on a gurney, but their arms and legs were thrashing, their mouth wide open in a silent scream.

Peter looked away from the image, briefly closing his eyes as a shudder ran through his spine. At the bottom of the picture, the written words—no longer in that messy handwriting, but in a careful cursive script, his mother’s handwriting, he knew—read: _Resigning, September 14._

September 14, his mother had tried to resign the day before she and his father left for Germany, which was odd enough because he had thought they were going on a business trip dealing with Oscorp. _Wait,_ realization struck him like a freight train, _then that meant…_

He opened his eyes, then looked back at the photo. Something was imprinted on the person’s hospital gown, a bloody red biohazard sign, but there was something else—the vials on the table, Peter squinted his eyes, trying to read its label on the blurred photograph even as his heart was pounding in his ears

And there it was, the sharp logo of Oscorp Industries staring right back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, the writing in this sucks. I've noticed that the pacing in the previous chapter was rather off, I'm guessing this one too, but that's because I didn't want to beat around the bush anymore (a.k.a. overthinking things of the plot and details and blah blah) and just have the story truly begin.
> 
> Please comment XD


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